READ EXCERPT

THE BROTHERHOOD

Of

The Sword Trilogy

Book I

Operation

Armageddon

 

 

 

A Novel

By Tage N. Wright Sr.

©1997, Tage Wright, all rights reserved, this book may not be

reproduced without the express written consent of the author.

Acknowledgements:

I would like to express my many thanks to Mary Polaski for her assistance in editing this manuscript.  I would also gratefully express my thanks to all those who served as my test readers.  They gave me the encouragement I required to continue.  A great thanks goes out to my wife, Cynthia, who has supported me in all of my endeavors in since becoming my wife in August of 1972. 

Dedication:

This book is dedicated to the memory of Major Thomas A. Budrejko who died in a helicopter crash on the 22nd day of February 2012

Cover photo by Jake Egbert

Cover created and designed by Viola Twelves

Prologue

July 1868

Like a living creature the jungle fought them.  Each foot they advanced was won by bone wrenching toil.  After ten hours of exhaustive struggle hacking their way through the dense vegetation they broke into an open area thirty feet wide and nearly seventy feet long.  Fatigue dogged their every move as they set up their camp in the rectangular clearing that defied the jungle around it.

As the sun left the sky the air turned cold.  After the intense heat of the day the evening chill felt that much colder.  The fire blazing in the center of the camp didn't throw enough heat to warm them.  Its yellow tongues of flame cast a pale flickering light across the features of the two men who sat hunched against the cold.

Lost in their own private thoughts the two weary men stared at the crackling fire.  Thirty days into the expedition and it was in trouble, very serious trouble.  Not only might it fail, but also their very survival was now in question.  Although they were not completely lost, they were cast adrift without their guide.  He was gone.  He and the porters who signed on with him had disappeared.

Perhaps they should have expected it.  He told them they should turn back.  They paid no attention to him.  After all it was only superstitious fear that frightened the five native bearers.  The stone statue had frightened them.  It was, oddly enough, the statue, which put the hope of success into the two now sitting alone by the fire.  It was the encouragement that they needed.  At the same time it was the catalyst that might very well have doomed them both.

The statue had (over the centuries) been weathered by the elements.  Not much of it was recognizable.  It was some kind of warrior.  That much they could tell.  It didn't look quite human.  Standing twelve feet tall it was fashioned from gray granite like stone.  Considering there were no rock formations close by large enough to produce a figure of its size, a great deal of effort must have been expended by the people who had placed it where it stood.

Campbell estimated it was in the neighborhood of two thousand years old.  A helmet-clad head whose features had long since been erased by the tropical rains sat perched upon a body equally decimated by the elements.  A shield and sword was held in battle position.  The figure had animal like legs that were massively muscled.  There was something odd about the torso as well.  It had protrusions several inches under the arms that looked as if they had once been a second set of arms.  The weather damage was too severe to tell for sure.  What looked like an armored breastplate seemed oddly shaped.  The weather and elements had been all too successful in erasing its true form.  Yet as badly damaged as it was the native bearers recognized it.  There was no mistaking the fear its discovery inspired.

Their guide, who was a dark skinned Mexican with black marble like eyes, refused to say anything about the find.  All he would say was that they should turn back.  “Bad place,” he called it.  He kept shaking his head and repeating, “No one goes here, this bad place.  We must go.”

Ignoring his warning, they camped within sight of the statue.  In the morning the two explorers awoke to find the camp empty.  The guide and the bearers had left during the night.  The bearers took only their possessions.  They hadn't taken one piece of the equipment they were paid to carry.  Cowards they might have been, but thieves they were not.  At first this had relieved Campbell.  He was soon to see that it didn't matter.  Campbell and Martin had to abandon nearly all of it.  There was no possible way two men could carry it all.  So it was left to the same elements that had washed away the stone statue's features.

Just when the discovery of the ancient culture they sought seemed promising they were squarely facing defeat.  It was not only discouraging to Doctor Jacob Campbell it was a crushing blow.  His life's dream seemed doomed.  His search for the lost cities relegated to failure by superstition.  He had pleaded for years for the church to help him in his efforts to locate the actual cities spoken of in the scriptures.  It would prove the validity of the Book of Mormon if they could find the physical evidence.  The world was so skeptical of the new church.  To Jacob it seemed necessary to find physical proof of its truth.  At last the funds for the expedition had come.  A collection from the members of the church who shared his vision made it possible.  Brigham Young, the president of the church, had (though somewhat reluctantly) donated some of the money.  This had thrilled Jacob Campbell.

Jacob Campbell was a firm believer in his religion.  It had taken hold of him after his first meeting with Brigham Young.  At the time he thought it ludicrous that the man should claim to be a prophet of God.  What folly this was he had thought.  Yet after he met the man he became a convert to the Mormon faith.

Jacob now sat chilled to his insides staring at the fire wondering what would become of his dream.  As he looked up across the fire he saw its light reflected in the reddish brown eyes of his companion.  He shivered.  It was not from the cold that he shivered.  Something about Elias Martin frightened him.  It had not been that way at first, somehow he had not seen it.  There were three of them when the journey started.  Poor brother Petros was lost at sea before they reached South America.  Somehow he fell overboard during one of the moon-less nights.  Petros had not liked Elias at all and he had said so.  It had been Jacob's decision to enlist Elias.

Of the three, Elias was the only one who was not a Mormon.  He was, he claimed, a hunter.  He was to be their protection against misfortune.  Neither Petros nor Campbell was familiar with physical self-defense.  They were educated men unaccustomed to self-preservation in a wilderness.  This made a man like Elias essential.

Now, alone with Elias, Jacob could feel what Brother Petros must have felt.  Something deep inside the man, hidden from sight, lurked with quiet patience.  Whatever it was Jacob sensed it was evil.  He thought of what President Young said as he gave Jacob the money collected for the venture.

“I give you these funds because I know it is the Lord's will that you go.  This much was revealed to me.  His purpose I cannot guess.  I feel in my heart that I am sending you to your doom.  Be careful, and may our Lord be with you.”

Elias Martin felt the glance of his companion sitting across the fire from him.  He didn't look up.  He continued to stare at the flames.  Inwardly he smiled.  He could smell the fear on Jacob Campbell.  That was how it should be.

Petros had not been as big a fool as Campbell.  He sensed the threat almost at once.  It hadn't made any difference.  Campbell had over ridden Petros's protests and taken him on anyway.

Elias rubbed his hands together.  He held them out to the fire.  He wondered how much more afraid Campbell would be if he knew how those hands choked the life out of Petros before his already lifeless body went over the side into the dark sea?

Campbell and Petros were what Elias hated most in the world.  They were religious men.  Elias despised religion in all its forms.  Perhaps he hated the Methodists most of all.  That's what his father had been, his spiteful and quite dead father.

Elias was no stranger to the taking of life.  He had killed twelve men.  Seven of them, including his father had been preachers.  The other five had simply (and unfortunately for them) gotten in his way.  That was not a wise thing to do.

When he (by chance) heard of the planned expedition he had been on his way to the Salt Lake valley.  He planned to kill Brigham Young.  Killing a self proclaimed Prophet would be the highlight of his life.  He remembered the satisfaction he felt killing other so-called men of God.  Even his time with women was not as satisfying.

He'd heard that Brigham Young put up a substantial sum (along with other wealthy members of the Mormon Church) for the expedition.  It would be a pleasure to take their money.  He'd kill Young later.

Getting hired to go along was an unexpected bonus.  He could not explain in terms that made any sense why he was drawn to the idea.  When he was very young, he dreamt of a city where the streets were paved with gold, a city that he alone would own.  A city populated by long dead warriors who would speak to him from the other side of death.

Somehow he knew that somewhere in the jungle the city waited for him.  He had only to find it.  Until then he would allow Campbell to live.

Elias slept like a stone while Jacob could only manage to doze.  When the sun rose the next morning they began to strike the camp.  It was then that Jacob found the paving stones.  They lie beneath the thin soil.  The clearing had been part of an ancient paved road.  This particular section of road was buried shallow.  It went deeper at each end of the clearing.  The shallow earth explained the reason for the existence of the clearing.  The earth was too shallow for anything with a deep root system to grow.

“This is it!”  Jacob excitedly exclaimed.  “This must be a road to one of the ancient cities.  If only we knew in which direction to go.”

“South,” Elias said pointing to the south end of the clearing.  He didn't wait for a reply.  He simply headed off in the direction he had indicated.  Jacob struggled to keep up.  By late afternoon they found the road again.  This time, it surfaced completely.  The thirty-foot wide stone paved road was weather worn, but considering its probable age, in very good condition.

They followed the road for a quarter of a mile emerging in a circular clearing.  The clearing was large, nearly a quarter of a mile in diameter.  Its floor was nearly barren of vegetation.  Patches of earth showed through the sparse grass that covered most of its floor.

All through the clearing boulders were scattered.  Most of these were white, almost transparent.  At the far end of the clearing a stone building stood.  When they got closer, they could see that the only wall standing was the one that faced them.  The other three lie in rubble.

The structure had been some type of religious shrine.  This was evident by the presence of the altar built in the center of what was left of the building.  Just behind the altar was a stone table that measured roughly three feet by seven feet.  A channel was gouged in the outer rim of the table.  At one end there was a hole cut in the channel that seemed to be a drain for the channel.  There was room under the overhang of the table for a bucket or urn to be placed.

“This must have been a sacrificial table.  The early Christians sacrificed animals,” Jacob ran his hand along the top of the stone table as he spoke.

“You fool, this wasn't built to sacrifice animals.  Look at its size.  This was made for human sacrifices.”  Elias spoke with a leer on his lips and contempt edging his voice.  Jacob jerked his hand away as if he had touched something very hot.  He knew that Martin was right.  These were not the ancient Christians he searched for.

Amongst the rubble they set up their camp for the night.  Again the pale yellow flames cast their light on the two men.  Jacob fought not only the cold now but also a growing uneasiness.  Something apart from the feelings his companion stirred in him.  It was a sense of evil that rose all around him, almost as if the earth itself were tainted.

Only a few feet from where Jacob sat the sacrificial table stood.  It was a stone cold reminder of the immense cruelty of which man was capable.  Dozens, perhaps hundreds of victims felt the cold stone against their backs as their lives drained away.  The fluid essence of their life running like a crimson river into the channel and collected for what ghoulish purpose, only Satan himself could contemplate.

Jacob's mind dwelt on the complexities of the human spirit, a spirit capable of great compassion and terrifying cruelty.  With tremendous effort he pulled himself from this morbid train of thought.  Jacob did not want to allow emotions to control his mind.  He forced himself to think of the purpose of his journey to the spot where he now sat.

“I thought that we would find the city here,” Jacob said with disappointment plain in his voice.

“We are close, I can feel it.”  Elias poured the dregs of his coffee on the ground.  He was pleased that Jacob was not a coffee drinker.  He wouldn't have wanted to share what little he had left (especially with a dead man).

* * * * * *

They came that night.  They were dressed for battle.  Helmets that resembled the one worn by the stone statue protected their heads.  They were wearing loincloths and breastplates of wooden mail.  They were ancient warriors.  The long dead warriors came only to Elias.  They spoke to him in a language that he had never heard before yet he understood all that they said.  It was as if the strange language were his.

They told him of the city.  They told him of the treasure.  They told him where it lay.  By morning he knew where to look.  His true destiny was taking shape.

Elias kicked at Jacob's prone body.  Jacob woke with a grunt of pain.  Squinting to see in the bright morning light he looked up at Elias.

“What is it?”  He managed.

“Get up.  I need your help.  I've found the city.”

“You've what?”  Jacob was still trying to shake the cobwebs from his sleepy brain.

“Come, I'll show you.”

Following Elias's direction they cut long poles from the jungle and used them to pry a large oblong stone that lie near the corner of the building.  With a great deal of effort they moved the stone.  Under it they found stone stairs that descended into the darkness.

“I'll make some torches,” Jacob said.

“We won't need them.”

“It's dark down there.  We'll need them to see.”

“Come, I'll show you.”

Again Jacob followed Elias.  Again he was right.  Once their eyes adjusted to the light they could see.  The stairs led into an underground world lit by the light that filtered in through the white boulders set like skylights into the stone ceiling.  There was a soft yellow glow as well.  It confused Jacob at first.  Then he realized its source.  It was a reflection from the paved floor beneath their feet.

“My Lord,” Jacob gasped, “the floor is paved in gold!”

Indeed this was true.  The floors were paved with gold bricks.  As near as they could tell the entire clearing was undermined by what appeared to be a small city whose entire floor was paved in gold.

Jacob was unnerved by the way that Elias strolled casually through the chambers.  It was as if he knew exactly where everything was, as if he had been here before.

When they reached what Jacob estimated was the center of the underground city heavy wooden doors barred their way.  Inexplicably Jacob felt the urge to run.  He saw a smile come over Elias's face.  Even in the poor light he saw it clearly enough.  The smile brimmed with evil, frightened him.

“It's in here,” Elias said.

“What's in here?”  Jacob asked.

“The sword, it's in here,” Elias answered.

The chamber was dark.  There were no stones placed in the ceiling to bring in the light.  Instead there were torch holders set in the walls.  Outside the chamber set in racks were torches.  They must have been placed there long ago for those who would enter.

To Jacob's amazement the torches still lit.  After all the years that had passed the ancient torches still burned.  They cast a yellow light into the vast expanse of the chamber, pushing back the darkness only a few feet.

Elias did not hesitate.  He went forward holding his torch high above his head.  Jacob followed him as he marched toward a yet unknown goal.  On either side of the path that they strode Jacob saw what was missing from the rest of the dead city.  He saw the remains of what had once been people.  Not much was left to decorate the floor.  There was enough for him to recognize what they were.  They had found the final resting place of the people who had populated this underworld.

Jacob had no idea how large the chamber actually was.  He was aware that they walked a considerable distance into it before Elias stopped.  They had entered a circle ringed by a gold chain held up by silver stanchions.  In the center of this circle a golden statue stood.  It was a duplicate of the stone effigy they found in the jungle.

It was indeed a warrior with a weapon at the ready.  This statue suffered none of the weather damage of its stone counterpart.  It was complete.  Jacob saw that the projections under the arms were indeed a second set of arms that held an infant close to the warrior's body, protecting it.  The warrior had a breastplate made of wood that covered the massive chest.  The muscular arms that held the sword and shield ended in hands that were certainly not human.  They had only two fingers and a thumb.  The digits had claw like nails.  This figure had a tail that had been missing from the stone statue in the jungle.  Its feet were bare and possessed only two toes with animal like claws.  Jacob could only stare in awe at the grotesque figure.

“What manner of god is this?”  Jacob muttered.  Then his eyes fell upon the crumpled figure that lay at the feet of the statue.  It was impossibly well preserved.  The hooded figure, lie on its back.  The eye sockets that should have been empty hollows held eyes.  They were staring up at the statue.  Flesh remained on the body.  It looked to be only hours old instead of the hundreds of years old that it must be.

Stuck between the ribs of the shrouded remains was a sword.  The hilt was embedded with jewels while the blade was ornately engraved.  The beauty of it was exhilarating.  The blood (on its blade) looked wet in the torchlight.  All this was not possible.  Jacob could not believe his eyes.

Elias knelt reverently by the body.  His manner was that of a mourner at a close friend's funeral.  Jacob felt again the urge to run from where he stood.  His mind and soul screamed a warning to the muscles of his body.  “Run, run”, he heard a voice inside his head shout.  Jacob Campbell the learned man ignored the warning and stood fast; his intellect forcing its will on the rebellion that was taking place in his mind.

Elias put his torch into a holder in front of the statue and took the hilt of the sword in his right hand.  As he did, a blue spark leapt from its hilt to the fingers that grasped it.  Elias spoke in a voice and language that Jacob did not understand.

“What are you saying?  What language is that?” Jacob croaked.

Elias slowly turned to Jacob.  He still held the hilt of the gilded sword as he spoke.  There was a fire deep in his eyes.  It terrified Jacob.

“I'm saying good bye to my brother.”  Elias pulled the sword from the body as he spoke.  He held it aloft as if to salute the statue.  As he did, Jacob looked back at the figure lying on the floor.  It began to disintegrate before his eyes.  It turned literally to dust as he watched.

When it finally ended the process a luminescent mist rose from the remains until it reached the ceiling and then it vanished.  Jacob looked in time to see the sword arcing down toward him.  It was too late to run now.  He felt the blade bite into his neck as it flashed down and across.  Surprisingly there was little pain.  He felt a strange sense of pressure and then the world slowed down.  Jacob tumbled to the floor.  Somehow he had escaped the descending blade.  At least that's what he thought until his eyes focused on the scene above him.  He blinked his eyes in disbelief.  He tried to scream but that of course was impossible.  His last mortal thought was of how silly his body looked standing headless spewing blood from the stump of its neck before the warrior god whose name he now knew.

Chapter 1

Dreams

Jared sat in his old rocker by the window watching the moon climb above the Rocky Mountains.  The beauty of it always thrilled and amazed him.  Its journey across the Utah sky had just begun.

At sixty-five, with his health failing, Jared didn't expect to see many more moon lit nights.  He was tired.  Life had caught up with Jared Merser.  All the sins of his life were piled against his soul smothering it, if he had a soul.  Of that Jared was still not sure.

“When you are young, you think you'll live forever,” he spoke aloud to himself, “and then one day you wake up and find it ain't so.”  There was bitterness in his voice.  It was bitterness understood best by those who are alone and at the end of their lives.

Jared looked at his wrinkled and withered hands.  Once they had been strong.  The skin had been smooth.  Sadness deep down inside began to force the tears to his eyes.  He couldn't stop them.  With a will of their own they pushed out onto his cheeks and ran down his wrinkled face.

Lately he'd been thinking a lot about God.  A man does that when he becomes bent with age.  Somehow, as the years run down, your perspective changes.

“If you exist at all,” he began aloud again, “you must have a terrible punishment waiting for me.”

Jared couldn't hold back the sobs that racked his aged body.  The tears ran down his cheeks and wet his lips.  There was no one left to mourn for Jared.  He'd lived in his old cabin for more than nine years in solitude, hiding from those who would destroy him.

He looked at the journal that lay in his lap.  It was all there.  All the sins he'd committed.  The whole story of his crime against the God he would soon face.  He looked at the one room cabin that had been his home and his prison.  What had it all been for?

The deer, that had been watching the man, emerged from the thicket and walked to the window.  The large doe looked straight at the old man.  Jared looked back.  He saw warmth and sympathy in those large brown eyes lit by the lantern's glow.  It was then that Jared knew.  God truly waited for him.

“It's all right Jar,” the voice said.  The old man stiffened at its sound.  After all these years he still recognized the voice.  It still sounded the same.

Slowly he turned his head to look for the source of the familiar voice.  Oddly he did not feel afraid.  He felt only a deep sadness.  When at last he saw the figure seated at the table his old eyes were clouded with tears.  It didn't matter; he knew who it was even without looking.  No one else had ever called him Jar.

“You've come for me.”  Jared's voice sounded clear and young, as it had once been so many years ago.

“It's not for me to come for you.”

“Then they will come for me,” Jared said.

“No, they can't find you.”

“You found me,” Jared said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”  Jared's eyes blinked back the tears so that he could see his visitor more clearly.  He hadn't changed. 

“It's started,” the visitor said.

“I know.  I felt it.  I can't stop it.”

“It's not for you to stop.  I came only to tell you that it's all right.  You can go without fear old friend.”

“Then you have forgiven me?” Jared asked.

“Yes.  Sometimes things happen that take control of our lives.  You were as much a victim as I.  Jar, you need to forgive yourself.  I have to go.”

Jared closed his eyes for a moment.  When again he opened them, the chair at the table stood empty.  His visitor was gone.  Slowly he turned back to the window to see the deer still standing there in the moonlight watching him.

For the last time Jared Mercer closed his eyes.  He spoke softly the last words of his life, “Forgive me Lord.”  With a slight shudder Jared died.

The old man's body remained upright in the rocking chair.  The deer watched the old man for a short while.  Slowly the majestic animal turned and walked back into the thicket.

No one would mourn his passing.  No one would even know.  He would sit in the old rocking chair for the rest of time and only the God that he had ignored for so long, the deer, and one old friend knew where he sat.

* * * * * * *

When she awoke special agent Kimberly Shaw wondered at her dream.  For years now she had kept a dream diary.  It was a habit she got into after reading a book on the significance of dreams.  She could not remember ever having a dream like that one.  It was so vivid.  She carefully noted it down in her little diary before she left the bed (otherwise she might forget it).

Her plane out of Salt Lake City left in four hours and she was looking forward to getting back to Washington.  The assignment had not gone well.  It depressed her.  She never liked it when children were involved.  It was something she always had trouble distancing herself from.  Even the fact that she had no children of her own didn't help.

In the last six months twenty-two children whose ages ranged from one to four years had disappeared from Arizona, Utah and Colorado.  They were gone without a trace.  That was bad enough without the sudden rise in the disappearances of young women as well.  Their age group seemed to be eighteen to twenty-four.  Seven were reported missing in Utah alone.  There seemed to be no logical explanation for the disappearances.  They did not fit the typical runaway profile at all.  Kimberly could not help feeling a sense of helplessness.

Fortunately for her it was over.  She was needed back at Bureau Headquarters.  She was glad.  She had seen enough grief in the last two weeks to last a lifetime.  Maybe once the dust settled she would take a long vacation.

* * * * * * *

Like soft cotton the darkness surrounded Paul.  He couldn't see a thing.  He could hear but there didn't seem to be anything to hear.  He could not move.  There was a faint odor that seemed very familiar, yet he could not identify it.  The anxiety was building inside of him like a corked bottle of soda being shaken.  “Where am I?” he screamed.

He could, if he concentrated hard enough, feel the muscles of his arms and legs tense and relax as his confused brain probed for their existence.  Slowly his dulled senses began to waken.

He became aware of a feeling of discomfort located at the bony edges of his shoulder blades.  They pressed against something hard and unyielding.  It hurt.  Was he lying down?  No, this couldn't be the case.  He was also acutely aware of pressure on the soles of his feet.  He must be standing leaning against a wall of some kind.  Yes, that must be it.

The darkness softened.  Gradually light filtered into his eyes like wisps of gray mist.  Finally after what seemed like hours, he was able to see a little.  He was in a long hallway with a series of doors along its left side.  The right side had what seemed to be black paneling.  It was shiny.  He could see dull reflections in it.  He saw his own fuzzy unfocused reflection.

The hallway slowly became brighter until it was completely lit.  Paul's vision was still not totally clear.  It was like a dream sequence in a cheap soap opera.  The center of his field of vision was only slightly out of focus while the rest of what he could see remained shrouded in fog.  It seemed artificial and at the same time frightfully real.  He saw again his own reflection in the black paneling.  He was wearing a uniform of some kind.  It was a security guard's or policemen's uniform.  He could make out the distinct image of a holster on his left hip.  What was he doing dressed this way?

Suddenly he could move.  It was as if someone flipped a switch on the motor circuits of his brain.  Without hesitation he went down the hall to one of the doors.  An unyielding invisible force drove him to it.

The anxiety changed to cold fear as Paul approached the door.  He reached for it.  His heart leapt in his chest as it swung away from him like the automatic door at the grocery store.  Unable to stop himself he moved through the open doorway into the room.  It was as if someone else controlled his movement.  He was only along for the ride.

Behind a large metal desk sat an equally large man.  The man's features were blurred, out of focus.  He was angry, yelling words that Paul could not understand.  They were garbled and only the last thing said could he clearly understand.

“You've brought this on yourself!” the fat man shouted.

Fear changed to terror.  Paul knew there was someone behind him.  The familiar odor he had detected was much stronger now.  He wanted to turn and face whomever it was standing behind him.  He could not.  He was frozen in place like a lifeless mannequin.  Paul waited for his fate.  He knew that he was unable to change what was about to happen.

Behind the angry man at the desk was a wall clock.  Oddly enough he could see it clearly.  It was, in contrast to everything else, in sharp focus.  In its face he saw the strangest thing.  He saw a woman reflected in its glass face.  She seemed to be pleading with him for something.  The man hiding behind him slipped an arm around his neck and as it tightened about his throat the image of the woman faded until at last only the face of the clock remained.  It was three thirty.

He couldn't breathe!  He was suffocating!  His lungs felt like they would explode...  Paul awoke gasping for breath.  He was bathed in sweat and his heart beat with painful intensity.  Only after a long while, did the fear leave him.  Reality slowly claimed his senses.  The nightmare that invaded his nights for the past month had ended.

Paul switched on the light and looked at the clock it was five thirty.  He picked the clock up and looked closely at it.  He studied it as if it could tell him something.  Paul had no idea what he was looking for.  Reluctantly he put the clock back on the dresser.  Now it only required that he wait for morning to come.  He knew that sleep would not return.  He would lie there until his alarm rang at seven.

* * * * * * *

John swung his legs over the edge of the bed.  The images of his dream were still vivid.  He felt again the sadness that he had felt twenty-one years ago.

The image of his friend Bill Evans lying in that coffin was more vivid now than it had been the day of the funeral.  Details that he'd never noticed at the time were sharp and clear in the dream.

The dim light of the alarm clock seemed bright in the total darkness of the room.  It was five thirty.  He knew that he would not be able to fall back to sleep.  The sadness was too real.  The pain of loss burned too strongly within him.  “John, where are you going?” June spoke softly.  The restless turning had roused his wife.

“I've got to go to the bathroom, hon.”

 June watched her husband sluggishly walk to the bathroom.  She knew that something was bothering John.  It had been going on for a month now.  It was getting worst.  She didn't know what to do.

          

* * * * * * *

Craig's eyes popped open.  He listened to the silence around him.  Something had awakened him.  A word, a noise, gone now, had brought him out of a sound sleep.

There was that unsettling feeling again (as if there were someone in the room watching him).  It sent a chill through him.  He knew without looking that it was five thirty.

His right hand slipped slowly under the pillow.  Craig's fingers found the snub-nosed thirty-eight that lay there.  He carefully surveyed the room.  Again no one was there.  He released his grip on the weapon.  For a month now he'd slept with his steel companion, ever since he started waking up at five thirty.

* * * * * * *

As Paul brushed his teeth he tried to think of something else.  The dream was hard to shake.  It was so vivid.  Unlike most dreams the memory of its details didn't fade with the passage of time.  He would remember it as clearly at lunch as he did when it woke him.

Paul had an appointment with a local shrink.  Only it wasn't to get his head straight, it was to give him an estimate for remodeling his office.  Maybe he would get the chance to ask him about the dream.  After all he was a great talker.  Paul could start a conversation with a lamppost.

Up until a month ago his life was uncomplicated.  Then it started.  Every night the same dream would force him awake.

A month ago he was a successful young man in business for himself, looking for a pretty young lady to share his dreams.  Now the only dream he seemed to have woke him up at five thirty every morning.

After his morning ritual in front of the bathroom mirror Paul dressed in jeans and a short sleeve shirt.  He hated dress clothes.  They simply weren't Paul Nelson.

Five minutes later he was climbing into his 1970 Dodge pickup truck.  He was back in his element.  The big old 318 cubic inch V8 rumbled into life with a throaty roar.  Paul loved that sound.  Twenty-three years old and the old bomb still ran like a top.

What he liked most about the old blue monster was the way it snapped your head back when you mashed down on the gas pedal (an American V8 and low gearing what a wonderful combination).

The thought of buying a new truck had crossed his mind.  The only thing was he really loved the old girl.  He had from the moment he saw her sitting in the front yard of the previous owner's home.  In fact there was something indescribable about his attraction for the old truck.  He had to have her no matter what the cost.  Besides, some of his customers thought a guy who drove an old truck wasn't trying to make a killing on every job.  With no big truck payments to keep up his prices would be reasonable.

Regardless what his customers might be thinking Paul had done all right.  In business for three years, he'd managed to save up over fifty grand.  That was none too shabby an accomplishment for a guy his age.

Paul pulled out of his driveway.  The Dodge's radial tires chirped a little as he accelerated.  It was only seven miles into town.  He should be at the doc's office on time.

Doctor John Wilbur called him the week before about remodeling and adding a room onto his clinic.  For the most part it sounded like a good job.  It was mid January and the temperature in Connecticut could cause some problems for his subcontractors.  It didn't matter much to Paul what the temperature was.  He worked year round.  The cold didn't bother him at all.

The traffic in Norwich wasn't bad at that time of the morning.  Paul pulled into the clinic's parking lot with ten minutes to spare.  He liked being punctual.

The clinic wasn't that old but whoever planned the building itself hadn't wanted it to be very expensive.  A small unobtrusive sign simply read Psychiatric Clinic.

There was plenty of room on all but one side of the building.  The structure was sided in a cheap plywood type siding.  The original builders were obviously keeping construction costs to a minimum.

As Paul entered the building he couldn't help but notice that the inside was also evidence that the builders cut corners everywhere.  “I hope they don't want me to duplicate this crap,” Paul muttered to himself.  He avoided having his name associated with poor quality work.  That was one of the reasons for his success in getting and maintaining paying customers in a weak market.

The receptionist, seated at the sliding glass window, was engrossed in typing something.  She was a young woman of about Paul’s own age.  Her clothes looked ill kept and her make up was a disaster.  Apparently she was not very adept at the finer points of being a woman.

Paul waited patiently for her to notice him.  Apparently she wasn't about to.  After waiting for what seemed like a very long time he cleared his throat rather loudly.  When that didn't work he spoke up as loudly as he dared.

“Excuse me, I have an appointment with Dr. Wilbur.”

In an expressionless tone she said, “Here fill this out and have a seat over there.”  She pointed at the bench against the far wall and handed him an insurance form.

“I'm sorry.  But I'm not a patient.  I'm here to give the doctor an estimate on remodeling the clinic.”  He thought but didn't say that the Doctor should see about remodeling his receptionist.  She was a sight.

“Oh,” she said flatly.  Paul's intrusion obviously annoyed her.  She disappeared into one of the three doors behind her, reappearing moments later to usher Paul into Doctor John Wilbur's office.

The office was small with one window placed high in the wall.  At this window stood a tall thin man with a large nose.  He looked much like the cartoon character Ichabod Crane in the Walt Disney version of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”.  He was well over 6 feet tall.  Six foot four inches to be more precise.  Though his large nose was striking to see, his misty gray eyes held a person's attention.  They seemed out of place.  They didn't fit in with the rest of his face.

Turning towards Paul as he entered, Dr. Wilbur extended his hand, “Hello, I'm Doctor Wil...” He stopped in mid word.  His voice died abruptly, as if someone had shut it off.  Astonishment embodied his whole being.  He made an obvious effort to speak, but his voice seemed lost.  The silence was embarrassing.

“Paul, Paul Nelson, you called me about an estimate.”  Paul watched the doctor visibly shake himself free of whatever it was that held him.  He sat at his desk before speaking.

“I apologize.  Have a seat.  You look so much like a close friend of mine.  For a moment I thought you were him.”  The doctor, seated at his desk, had completely regained his composure.  “You could be his twin.”

John realized he was talking about Bill Evans in the present tense (as if he were still alive).  This troubled him.  He was sure that if he were his own patient he would have something to say about that sort of behavior.

“Well, I hope he's a nice guy.”  Paul smiled at Doctor John Wilbur with Bill's grin.  But he wasn't Bill.

“Yes he was but that was a long time ago.  He died.”  John looked closely at the young man seated in front of him.  He was about the same age that Bill had been at the time of his death.  The likeness was startling and unsettling.  It was more than appearance, his voice was a near perfect match and his mannerisms; it was too much.  Or was this simply his imagination running wild?  Imagination or not, it was like stepping back in time.

“I'm sorry.”  There was an uncomfortable pause.  Finally Paul went on.  “So, what did you have in mind to do with your clinic?”

“Well, when I came across your business card in my card file I got this bright idea to enlarge the clinic.”

“My business card?”  This puzzled Paul.  “You must be mistaken, someone must have given you my name.”

“No, I have your card right here.”  John flipped through his card file.  “That's funny I can't seem to find it.  You had better give me another one.”

“I would, if I had any.  But I don't have any.  I've never had any.  I've never had the need for them.  I get all my business by referral.”

“I was sure I had your card.”  The Doctor (visibly puzzled) shrugged and went on.  “It doesn't matter.  You're here so let’s see what we can come up with.

“I've got an idea!  Let's go to breakfast and we'll work the arrangements out for the job.”  John was compelled to spend more time with this young man.  There was something more to this than he could explain.

“That sounds good to me.”  Paul began to get the feeling that he'd met this odd looking gentleman somewhere.  He just couldn't place the where or the when.

Breakfast consisted of a couple of egg McMuffins at the local McDonalds.  Paul washed them down with some orange juice.  He took out his pen and began to sketch on a napkin as he spoke to the doctor.

“The job won't be complicated.  You can come out twenty feet here.  It will still give you plenty of parking and add enough space inside to have a group therapy area with a bathroom right here.”  Paul could tell that Dr. Wilbur wasn't really paying attention to what he was saying.

Paul was right about that.  John wasn't paying attention to what he was saying.  He was however paying close attention to Paul.  It was unnerving how closely this young contractor resembled his dead friend.

It was amazing and tragic how that one event had changed the course of his life.  John and Bill had grown up in Utah together.  They had been buddies ever since they were toddling around the house in diapers.  They were as different as night and day and yet they were best friends.

After high school Bill went in the Navy while John went to college.  For the next four years they exchanged letters.  They never lost touch.  Whenever Bill was home on leave, they would get together.

John was still chipping away at his education when Bill came home for good.  He wasn't home a week when he landed a job with the local police department.  Bill was a natural at it.  Everything was coming up roses until, two months short of his twenty-third birthday he was murdered.  His body had been dumped in the desert like a discarded automobile.

Bill's death devastated John.  He changed almost over night.  His only friend was gone.  After the funeral he dropped out of school.  Three months later he packed his things and headed east winding up in Connecticut.  John eventually finished his education in the Nutmeg State.

It wasn't hard to nail down why John became so bitter.  The loss of his only true friend dealt him a cruel blow.  There wasn't anyone to blame.  There was no one to punish, and no target for the hate that erupted from the depths of John's soul.  All the sorrow and all the helplessness he felt turned to anger, anger with no direction.  Not a single suspect was turned up in the ensuing investigation.

It wasn't long before he began to direct his anger at the only target he could.  He blamed God and he didn't keep it a secret.  The memorial service for Bill marked the last time John ever set foot in a chapel.  For John Wilbur God was dead and he meant him to stay that way.

So here (twenty-one years later) was Doctor John Wilbur.  At forty-six, he had been married only two years.  Until he had met June, his wife, he had lived a life separate from everyone else.  He had lived in a shell.

June helped him find the something he had lived without for nearly twenty years, friendship.  Now with the onset of his nightmares he began to retreat back into the shell June had pried him out of.  Life was becoming an emotional roller coaster.  Now he was sitting having breakfast with a stranger who seemed more familiar to him than his own wife.

                       

* * * * * * *

Craig reloaded his revolver.  The silhouette target 15 yards away portrayed a gruesome looking bad guy with a gun.  Firing from a combat stance, he placed six rounds in the head of the ugly guy imprinted on the target.  The six inch 357 jumped with each round.

All of the six rounds from the revolver were clustered close together.  Craig was an excellent shot.  He needed to be.  He was a private detective and a skip tracer.  Skip tracing provided the lions share of his income.  He had been lucky so far.  He had not yet needed to use his weapon.

Craig recently celebrated his forty third birthday.  Of this he was somewhat indifferent.  His well-muscled frame stood six feet in bare feet.  Without a word of doubt from anyone who knew him, he was a dangerous man.  His martial arts and boxing background made him a formidable opponent.  After his tour in Vietnam he had been a top rated amateur boxer.  Only a cracked knuckle kept him from an exhibition match with a top contender.  He was a very dangerous man.  This was especially true if you were a criminal who he was attempting to apprehend.

Things were getting spooky for Craig.  Waking up every morning at five thirty was bad enough, but today he kept hearing voices.  It was as if someone was calling his name softly, almost a whisper.  Jumpy isn't a good thing.  Not when your reactions can make the difference in your own survival.  And tonight he was going after Pullman.  Craig wasn't happy.

Chapter 2

Ghosts

Craig waited outside the bar for nearly two hours.  Pullman had parked his car in the alley.  There wasn't any other way.  He couldn't control the situation if he went in after him.  It had to be outside.  No matter how long it took he had to wait.

Craig cursed under his breath as he saw Pullman emerge from the bar.  He wasn't alone.  He had two friends in tow.  Pullman was six foot four sporting about 240 pounds.  Alone he'd be a problem.  His two friends could complicate the whole matter; things could go sour very fast.

“Well, let’s see how much these guys like you.”  Craig spoke to himself as he got out of his retired police cruiser.  He headed for the trio.  They had stopped to light some smokes a short distance from the entrance to the bar.  They were unaware of his approach. 

“Good,” Craig thought while he moved ever closer.

“Pullman,” Craig called out.  Craig had waited until he was close enough to see the alarm bell go off in Pullman's eyes.  The large black man looked at Craig warily as he covered the few remaining feet to the three men.  The surprise at his sudden awareness of someone so close and his confusion at this stranger who knew his name were written across his dark features.  “I'm here to take you back to Connecticut.”

Craig was set as he spoke.  This man looked every bit as dangerous as his reputation.  Craig knew at once what this was going to come down to.  He could see it in the man's eyes.  If the other two would stay out of it he would have a chance at getting through this without killing anyone.

“What?  Who the hell are you?”  Craig knew that Pullman didn't really care who he was.  He only wanted to stall.  He was figuring out what to do.  Pullman's eyes darted left and right; no doubt he was wondering if this idiot was all alone.

“That doesn't matter.  What matters is that I've got a warrant to pick you up and take you back to Connecticut.  I'm not looking for any trouble.  I'm only doing a job.”  Craig was ready for what came next.  He'd dealt with too many men like Pullman to expect less.  In fact Craig would have been disappointed if Pullman had not responded as he did.

“Well slick, you've found trouble and getting your ass kicked ain't much of a job.”  Pullman true to form, lashed out with his right fist as if to punctuate his remark.  Craig was mildly surprised at the speed of the punch.  For a big man Pullman was quick.  Fortunately, he was not quick enough.

Craig was ready and waiting for this.  His legs were slightly spread apart with his weight well balanced.  He avoided the straight right and grasped Pullman's outstretched right arm as it reached the limit of its travel.  Craig locked his right hand on Pullman's coat sleeve and yanked the big man off balance.  With Pullman teetering forward Craig hit his exposed rib cage with a vicious left.  Craig was well practiced at getting maximum force from a punch.  He spent several hours each week sparring with local boxers and he endlessly pounded on the heavy bag hanging in his garage.  The blow had the desired effect.  Pullman grunted in pain and covered his ribs.  Craig followed up the left with an elbow to Pullman's exposed jaw.  Springing back, Craig was ready to deliver a low kick to Pullman's groin.  It wasn't necessary, Pullman collapsed.  He was, to use an overworked expression, out like a light.

“Well, a glass jaw,” Craig stepped back as he spoke.  He focused his attention on the two watching the action.  They hadn't moved.  “You fellows looking for trouble too?”

The pair looked at each other and vigorously shook their heads.  Of course that didn't mean they weren't.  It could be they just didn't want to admit it.  So Craig watched them warily as he handcuffed the unconscious Pullman.

“Well, are you guys going to just stand there and gawk?  Pick up your pal and throw him in the back of that old Ford across the street.”  They didn't want to lend a hand so Craig put his best “or else” tone in his voice.  “It's late, I'm tired and you don't want to piss me off.”

That was enough convincing.  Five minutes later Craig was on his way back to I-95 with Pullman secured in the back seat.  He left Pullman's two pals standing on the sidewalk trying to decide if they should have some more to drink.

The digital clock on his dash said it was past midnight as he crossed the Connecticut line.  The old Ford was running smooth as always.  It was perfect for his pick-ups.  There was a cage in the back to protect him from irate passengers.  Not that they could do much manacled and cuffed.

Craig was about to turn the radio on when he heard it.  This time he heard the voice clearly.  “Craig, I need your help.”  Craig nearly drove off the road as he looked quickly around the car for the source of the voice.

Pullman was still out like a light.  The hair on the back of Craig's neck bristled.  It took ten minutes for his heart to stop pounding.  “I must be losing my mind!”  He muttered to himself.

The car ahead of Craig headed off the highway onto the exit ramp.  He glanced to the right and watched the car travel down the exit ramp.  Then it happened.  What he saw froze him solid.  Sitting in the front seat, an arm's length away, was a police officer.  He sat there, looking straight ahead.  He had appeared out of thin air.  His uniform was wrinkled with sand clinging to it.  He didn't turn as he spoke.  He simply stared straight ahead.

“I need your help, you must help them.  The killing must be stopped.”

The light was blinding.  Closing his eyes didn't help at all.  A loud rapping sound was coming from somewhere.  Craig realized he was still sitting in the front seat of his car.  The rapping sound was someone tapping on the driver's side window.

He heard the voice of whoever was rapping on the window.  “You in the car.  Keep your hands where I can see them, unlock the door and exit the vehicle.”

Craig didn't recognize the voice but he did recognize its tone.  It was loud and demanding and undoubtedly that of a state trooper.  Although Craig was disoriented and confused, he had dealt with the state police enough to do what he was told.  Exactly what he was told.

There were four patrol cars surrounding Craig's car.  Their spotlights illuminated the scene in a blinding light.  Pullman was still in the back seat.  He was wide-awake and looked like a man who just landed on another planet.  He wasn't pleased to be in the midst of so many police cruisers.

Craig suspected that behind those bright lights there were several nine-millimeter automatics trained on him.  He was careful to move slowly.  He placed his hands on the roof of the car when he was told to do so.

“I'm armed.”  He spoke to the officer who was about to search him.  “I've got a revolver in a hip holster on my right side and a Magnum in a shoulder holster under my left arm.”

The officer was about to relieve him of the weapons when a familiar voice came from behind the lights.  “Todd, he's okay, he's a PI.  The nervous looking guy in the back seat is probably a bail jumper.”  A gray haired state trooper stepped into the light.  “Sorry Craig, I didn't recognize the old bomb.  You must have washed it.”

Craig chuckled at that.  The gray haired trooper was an old friend.  He and Craig went back a long way.  Their friendship went all the way back to Nam and the time that they spent together in the Marines.

“Hey, that's Pullman back there!  How did you tag him?  He doesn't like to cooperate.”

“I know.  He came the hard way.”  Craig rubbed his elbow as he remembered how hard the man's jaw had been.

“We can take him off your hands if you'd like.  I'd like to take him in myself.  I'll even give you a receipt.”

“Tom, you can have him.  I need to get home.  I must have fallen asleep at the wheel.  I had one hell of a dream.”  Craig couldn't remember exactly what had happened.  Or at least what had been reality and what hadn't.  He certainly didn’t remember going off of the road.  He must have fallen asleep.  Sure, it was all a dream.  He almost believed it himself, almost.

“Do you always lock your wheels up when you fall asleep?  There's twenty feet of skid marks on the pavement out there.”

“Tom, all I know is one minute I'm driving along and the next I'm in the lime light.”  Craig intentionally left out the part about the cop sitting in his car.  There wasn't any point in letting everyone know you were crazy.

“Well, let’s get this guy into one of the cruisers and check out your heap.  We'll see if the old wreck will get you home,” Tom said heading for Craig's car.

Craig opened the door to the back seat.  “You're going with these fellows.  So behave yourself.”

         

* * * * * * *

Craig ran his hand through his hair.  Pullman was in the hands of the State Police.  His work was done for the night.  He was tired and in a terrible state of mind.  If he could only keep his head clear long enough to get home.  He had about as much as he could take for one night.

Craig thought about Tom.  They owed each other.  More than once, in the jungle, when the slim thread of life stretched to the breaking point, they came through for each other.  They had gone in country together and they had gone home together.

Craig had even thought about joining the state police with Tom.  It didn't work out.  Craig didn't like rules.  The time he spent in the Marines taught him that.  So now he worked for himself.  He was a bounty hunter.  He made his own rules.  He liked what he did.

Tom, on the other hand, couldn't live without rules.  They marked out his whole life.  It amazed Craig how two men of such different metal could be such close friends.  Maybe, the difference bonded them together.

Craig couldn't shake the feeling of cold fear that was rapidly consuming him.  He had faced death.  He had faced men bent on his destruction.  This was different.  A bullet or a right cross wouldn't stop this.  You couldn't run from it.  You could only wait for whatever might happen.

Craig was what other men dream of being.  He was skilled in both armed and unarmed combat.  He could hold his own with men half his age.  That was fortunate because that's what he did most of the time.  Right now, he would gladly trade places with a couch potato to shake the fear that was crawling all over him.

Craig changed lanes as he approached the exit for interstate 395.  In another ten minutes he would be at the exit for his condo.  He just had to hold it together for ten more minutes.  It seemed like only seconds later that he realized he had missed his exit.  He had been so deeply immersed in thought he had simply driven on by.  He took the next exit.  As he rolled down the ramp the old Ford began to sputter.  He was lucky to make it to the parking lot across from the exit before the engine died completely.

A small building, which Craig had somehow never noticed before, sat at the end of the lot.  There was a small sign that Craig couldn't read on the corner of the building.

“Damn it,” Craig thought, “I don't need this!”

Craig was exhausted.  He felt like he couldn't move.  “I'll just rest a few minutes.”  With that thought ringing in his head Craig leaned his head back on the headrest and closed his eyes.  He was asleep in less than a minute.

* * * * * * *

John stood alone in the corner of the funeral home.  He could smell the flowers.  They were all around the casket.  The colors were vivid.  Everything was so real.  Yet he knew it wasn't.  That knowledge didn't help.  The sadness still swept over him like an ocean wave.

Slowly he worked his way through the people in the room.  They ignored him as if he weren't there.  “I'm the only real one here,” he thought.

This time it was different, frightfully different.  Bill's head was turned in the casket!  His eyes were open and he was watching John as he approached.

John realized everyone in the room had stopped talking.  Suddenly they were all aware of him.  They were watching him now.  They were all watching him.  This time fear joined the sadness.  Sadness brought him to the casket.  It was fear that forced him to his knees beside it.  It was fear that held him frozen, unable to flee, unable to turn away.

“John we need your help.  The killing must stop.”

His dead friend's voice was distinct and demanding.  Worst of all it was real.  It was as real as anything that he had ever heard was.  And real too were the stares from the people watching him.  They stared at him accusingly.

“I don't understand!”

Bill's hand reached out and grasped John behind the neck exactly the way he did when they were boys.  John felt the powerful grip he remembered from their youth.  Bill pulled him close and spoke softly in his ear.

“Remember the old man by the lake.”

* * * * * * *

“John, wake up.  Wake up.”  June Wilbur shook her husband gently.  He had been thrashing about so violently that he woke her up.  He was drenched in sweat.  His heart pounded in his chest.  Reaching to the back of his neck he could still feel the pressure of his friend’s strong hand.

* * * * * * *

Craig jerked awake.  He was cold.  His body ached.  It took him several moments to piece together the events of the night before.

The bright morning sun glinted on the frosty surface of the parking lot.  The small sign that he could not read the night before stood out plainly in the bright light.  It read simply “Psychiatric Clinic”.

“Boy did I pick the right place to break down!” Craig spoke aloud to himself.

Craig thought about the night before.  He knew that he had seen the cop that appeared in his car somewhere before, but he couldn't remember where.  Sooner or later he'd remember.  Sooner or later he'd put a name to him. 

Craig tried the starter on the old Ford.  It fired up at once.  He revved the engine a couple of times.  It sounded strong and healthy.  Whatever had ailed the old beast the night before had cured itself.

Water in the gas was his first thought.  Then again it was just maybe someone or something trying to tell him he did need help.  Craig shook that thought off.  He didn't want to believe that.

In the midst of this storm of thoughts an intruder in the form of a blue Taurus sedan appeared.  It rolled to a stop next to the building in a parking spot with a reserved sign marked Dr. Wilbur.

The tall lanky gentleman dressed in a three-piece suit and open overcoat untangled himself from the driver's seat of the Taurus.  With apparent awkwardness he straightened his clothes and peered curiously at Craig's car.  Craig wondered what kind of man wore a three-piece suit to work.  “Someone who makes a lot more than I do,” he said to himself.

* * * * * * *

John saw the old Ford as he turned into the parking lot.  A rough looking character sat behind the wheel.  It made him nervous.  His nervousness translated itself into his getting tangled in the seat belt.

His first instinct was to completely ignore the car and its occupant and go into the office where he could lock the door and watch from relative safety.  He put that thought aside in favor of his natural curiosity.  He peered at the car and the man in it.  He walked cautiously toward the beat up old Ford.  It looked like an old police car.  The driver got out and met John half way.

“Are you the doc?” the stranger inquired.

“Yes, I'm Doctor Wilbur.”  John put the emphasis on Doctor.  He disliked the term doc.

“I'm Craig Mason.  I was wondering if I might speak with you.  My car acted up late last night.  I managed to park in your lot.  It's okay now, but I really need to talk to someone.  Could we talk?”

“I'm a Doctor of Psychology, not an auto mechanic.”  John was in no mood to talk to anyone.  The dream still had him on edge.

“It's not about the car!  It's about me.  I've been hearing things  . . . “ John heard the desperation in Craig's voice.  It didn't matter.  He wasn't up to this.

“You really need to make an appointment.  I'm not seeing anyone today.”

“Damn it, I need to talk to you.  It has to be now.  I can't wait for an appointment!”  Craig's voice was strained.

“I'm sorry.”  John now wished he had gone directly into the office.  This man might be dangerous.  “Listen, let me give you my card, you can call me.”  John reached into his coat and withdrew his billfold.  He found his wrist in a vise like grip.  Craig had violently checked the movement of his arm.  John's billfold flew from his hand spilling its contents on the parking lot.

“Now, I'm sorry.”  Craig's hard features softened.  He released John's wrist.  “In my line of work, when a man reaches inside his coat like that, usually something more dangerous than a wallet appears.”  Craig began scooping up the wallet and its contents as John rubbed his wrist.  He was thankful that he had not taken hold of his throat.  He'd have crushed it!

Craig began to hand over the wallet and its contents to the doctor.  He froze.  He was looking at a picture that had been dislodged from its hiding place in the wallet.  It was old and faded.  Even when it was new, it probably hadn't been a very good photo.  It was an old Polaroid snapshot of a sailor standing at parade rest in front of a double rack of rifles.  The color was poor and there were cracks in it.  The sailor wore undress blues with white leggings.  The leggings told Craig that it was taken while at boot camp.  On the reverse side of the photo was written, “John, I look good don't I!”  It was signed Billy.

“That's him.  That's why I couldn't remember who he was.  He was in the wrong uniform!”  Craig was talking aloud to himself.

“What are you talking about?  That man's been dead for over twenty years.”  John snatched the photo out of his hands with speed that surprised Craig.  “Who the hell are you!”

“I'm the ghost of Christmas past!  We have to talk and we have to talk now!”  Craig's voice, his posture, but most of all, the look in his eyes said loud and clear that this was not a request.  John wanted to turn and run.  Instead he turned and went into his office with the dangerous looking man at his heels.

Chapter 3

Debts

The streets of Olongapo City were lined with bars, drinking establishments that doubled as short-term hotels.  Here the local whores peddled their wares.  It was by all Christian standards a den of sin.  The buildings were not unlike those of the old west.  They sported false fronts and facades just as the buildings in the boomtowns of the old west had.  In a sense Olongapo City was a boomtown, one that got its wealth not from gold but from the men in the United States Military.

To the soldiers and sailors who came here on shore leave and R&R it was a dream come true.  Most of these men were barely out of their teens and hardly old enough to be called men.  Many of them were still teenagers with acne and an overactive sex drive.  It was a land of drinking, gambling and best of all, cheap sex.  Your wildest sexual fantasy could be had for five pesos, the equivalent of $1.25 American.  It was a paradise of naked women, bright lights and most importantly no parents.

Craig and Tom made their way across the bridge that separated the base from town.  It crossed the stretch of water known lovingly as the perfume river.  Soldiers and sailors passing over the bridge threw coins into the murky water.  Young boys and girls dove into the polluted water from the bows of small boats.  Somehow they managed to retrieve the coins from the muddy bottom.

The two young Marines headed into town.  Their target was a club called Jollo's.  They had been there the night before and had hooked up with two young girls.  What a night that had been.  The two young men hadn't worked up the nerve to take the girls upstairs then but they were ready tonight.  They were looking forward to a night of sex and booze.

It didn't take them long to reach the club.  Just inside the door they looked around searching for the two girls who had struck their fancy.  Neither of the girls was visible in the smoke filled room.

Near the center of the room a naked Filipino girl danced on a tabletop in a drunken stupor.  She was the homeliest woman the boys had ever seen.  That didn't seem to matter.  She had drawn a crowd.  The sailors seated around the table were cheering.  Around the large room sailors and soldiers danced drank and participated in other activities that they wouldn't write home about.

Craig and Tom could not find the two girls they'd been with.  Tom was all for waiting, Craig wasn't.  He did what seemed like the right thing to do, he picked out another one.  After all they were everywhere.

Tom didn't like that idea.  He'd heard about these girls.  Where their customers were concerned, they had a strange sense of value.  Although they might have sex with a hundred different men, they somehow felt that each of those men should be true to them alone.

They called the men who went from girl to girl butterfly men.  Tom had heard they had a method of dealing with butterfly men and it didn't sound one bit appealing.  They evidently cut up the offender's private parts with a butterfly knife.  A butterfly knife had a long slim blade encased in a split handle.  The handles unfolded like a butterfly's wings and the two halves fastened back together with the blade exposed.  It was a primitive version of the switchblade.  It was primitive but very effective.

Craig had picked a real looker.  She was wearing black pants with a white blouse and white gloves.  They were dancing for what seemed like only moments when Craig felt a tug on his shirtsleeve.  He turned to see who it was.  She caught him completely off guard.  There was a resounding slap and Craig's cheek stung with the force of the blow.

There, with all the indignation and fury of a jilted lover, stood the girl he had danced with the night before.  She stood with her hands on her hips, legs spread apart and the anger showing through her eyes like a beacon.  The girl he had been dancing with seconds before was jumping around like a cheerleader whose team had scored a touchdown for the other team.  She kept shouting, “Only dance!  Only dance!”

“You butterfly man!  I fix you, butterfly man.  You no do this again!”  The hands of the girl who had delivered the blow left her hips and out of nowhere a butterfly knife appeared.  She flipped it open with the ease of an old pro.  “I cut you up good mister butterfly man!  You no be butterfly man no more!”

Craig didn't wait to see if she was serious or simply trying to frighten him.  He reacted with a violence that shocked Tom (who was standing not ten feet away).  Tom's mouth dropped open wide enough to catch a fly the size of a softball.  He could not believe what his eyes told him. 

Craig smashed his clenched fist flat on the angry young women's nose.  She couldn't have weighed a hundred pounds.  Craig on the other hand was a rugged one hundred and ninety.  The results were predictable.  The force of the blow drove her backwards several feet before she dropped to the floor in a sitting position.  She dropped the knife and put both hands over her nose.  Blood ran between her fingers.  To Craig's amazement she didn't cry.  She just sat there on the floor with the blood running from her nose.  It dripped between her fingers leaving a puddle on the dirty floor between her legs.

Tom grabbed Craig's arm.  He had never seen anyone hit a woman before and it shocked him.  His first thought was that Craig should be restrained or else now that the girl was down he might kick her.  He nearly got clobbered as Craig wheeled expecting another foe.  Tom ducked in time to avoid a hook to his head.

“Hold it buddy!  I think we need to get back to the base.  We've had enough fun for tonight!”  Craig didn't argue.  They backed out of the club like a retreating army expecting a counter attack.  Once on the street they had two miles to walk before reaching the base.

They weren't far from the club's entrance when the expected pursuing force did appear.  There were six of them.  More than they had expected.  Three to one were not good odds.  On top of that two of them carried short clubs.  At least there were no guns that they could see.

“I think we better double time it back to the base.  I don't want to get killed before getting into combat!”  Tom's words were not wasted on Craig.  They headed off at a trot.  In their haste they made a wrong turn and wound up in a blind alley.  The pursuing Filipinos took complete advantage of this and fanned out across the mouth of the alley cutting off any chance of escape.  They had the two Marines cornered and outnumbered.

“I knew we should have stayed on the base.”  Tom spoke more to himself than to Craig.  As he spoke the four Filipinos who weren't carrying the bats produced knives.  Craig and Tom looked at each other.  Craig wanted to say something cavalier.  He only managed to shrug his shoulders.  They took up defensive positions to cover each other's back.

“Hey!”  The shout was loud in the confines of the alley.  It came from a sailor who stood at its entrance, behind the Filipino's.  His white uniform made him look luminescent in the relative darkness of the alley.  He held his white hat in his left hand.

“Mind your own business sailor boy!  Or we cut you up too!”  The leader of the six was facing the newcomer.  He didn't like the intrusion, or the decrease in the odds.  The sailor dropped his white hat and removed his wristwatch, putting it carefully in his pocket. 

“I can't do that,” he said simply.

One Filipino, carrying a short bat, rapidly advanced toward the sailor.  He brought it back preparing to strike the sailor a devastating blow.  In one fluid motion, the sailor side stepped toward his attacker and delivered a side kick to his knee.  There was a sickening crunch followed by a howl.  The bat made a hollow clattering sound as it fell to the pavement.  This sound was followed by the thud of its owner as he too hit the pavement.  He lay on his side grasping his misshapen leg.

The rest of the action was a blur.  Tom and Craig saw their opening and attacked at that moment.  Craig went for the leader.  He managed to disarm him, leaving him retreating with a dislocated elbow.  The sailor evidently managed to severely damage three of the attackers.  Craig was suitably impressed.

“Can we get the hell out of here?” Tom said as he scooped up his fallen hat.  Twenty minutes later the three servicemen were back on the base (safe and sound as Craig's mother used to say).  The two Marines shook hands with the sailor as he parted company with them.

“Hey, I owe you one!”  Craig spoke with the sincerity of a man who has incurred a great debt.  “If you need my help, just call.”

* * * * * * *

“That's the last I ever saw of him, until last night.”  Craig looked into the face of the lanky man who sat across the desk from him.  “I know it sounds incredible, but I'm sure that it was him.  The policeman's uniform threw me a curve.  That's why I couldn't place him.  I guess he's calling in his marker.”

Craig got to his feet and walked to the small window.  For a moment he looked old and drawn out.  Dr. Wilbur could see that something was wearing at him.

“You said this all started a month ago?”  John looked at the photo on his desk.  He was painfully aware that his personal nightmare had begun precisely one month ago.

“Yeah, that's when I started waking up in the morning thinking that someone was there.  But there never was.  It was the same time every morning.”  Craig sat back down.  He looked at John with a piercing gaze.

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  He asked the question though he knew the answer already.  “What time was that?”

“Five thirty.”  Craig looked unflinchingly at John.  “Where do you fit in?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on doc, you don't think this is all a coincidence do you?  There is a reason I wound up here.  I've been solving mysteries for the last twenty years.  I don't ever bet on coincidence.  You had his picture.  Who was he?”

“He was my best friend.”

“So, that's a start.  Tell me the rest.”

“Where do I begin?”

“At the beginning, I've got all day.”